Chronicles Of A Killer: The Artisan
by gategirl
Summary: **-Temporarily Discontinued-** The nightmares had never faded, not for Detective Benson. She lived the case for more than a month before the killer vanished and the murders stopped. Now the Artisan has resurfaced. EO


Author's Note: I have been trying to write this for some time now. And everything just keeps getting in the way. School, personal life, family, and writers block have all been infuriating issues lately. Anyway, so I finally got this chapter written. I realize that it's not very long, but hopefully upcoming chapters will be longer. Can't promise when I'll be able to write (damn writers block) but as soon as I can I will. Thanks for reading. Hope you like it. Reviews please….

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, or anything SVU related. Love everyone involved with the show, and certainly don't mean any infringement at all.

* * *

Olivia had never been good at this.

She'd learned, over time, to school her expression so that no one could see just how raw she was inside. Her eyes traveled over the small child's lifeless body and she felt the unwavering urge to retch and cry at the same time. She fought to keep her composure and appear unaffected by the gruesome scene laid out in front of her.

She had been with the Special Victims Unit what seemed like her whole life. Maybe because it was just that, her whole life. People thought that because she had, because she saw the worst of humanity in people everyday, that she was immune to it.

And nothing could be farther from the truth.

The victim, a tiny frail looking boy who couldn't have been more than eight, lay bare on the cold unyielding cement in a dingy New York alleyway between two prominent apartment buildings, his body mutilated. He was left sprawled out in a way that was almost artistic.

They had no name for the boy who was lying so degraded in the puddle of blood that had formed around him, his face frozen in an expression of perpetual terror. No name yet. That would come later. They would know it soon enough when the poem she was sure would follow was discovered inside one of the boy's body cavities.

She felt bile rise in her throat and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying desperately to stop the wave of nausea. It passed and Olivia opened her eyes, staring down at the face that would be the face of her nightmares for weeks to come. She felt a knot form in her throat.

Olivia stood up, moving away from the body as quickly as she could. She glanced over at her partner, who was talking to the uniformed officers that had found the body, as she slid her sunglasses safely into place so that the tears that threatened could pass unnoticed.

Elliot walked over to her, his face grim, and she knew in an instant how close he was to the edge of his control. Olivia fell into step beside him; easily matching his steps as they walked silently back to the car. She slid into the passenger's seat as Elliot took his place behind the wheel. Elliot slid the keys into the ignition but didn't crank it.

They sat in silence, each lost in their own personal hell, each reliving the horror-stricken past. "He's back," Elliot said, his voice thick with tension.

Olivia nodded. "He's back," she agreed, the tears she had been fighting against so savagely beginning to fall.

* * *

Dubbed the Artisan by the reporters who had covered the murders in the news, he was known as one of the most violent and depraved serial killers in recent memory. He was said to target small boys from the ages of six to eight, stalking them before they disappeared.

The Artisan moved silently through the shadows, watching in gleeful exhilaration, the wait was almost over and his hands itched to touch the object of his current fixation. He shoved them into his pockets, ruthlessly denying the urge that billowed through him. It wasn't quite time for that yet.

He watched from the shadows in the yard as little Phillip's parents argued in their bedroom, blissfully unaware that their son listened at the door, balled up on the floor in a broken heap.

The argument was nothing he hadn't heard before on the countless nights he had stood concealed by the shadows of the very tree he now leaned casually against. The couple fought every night. And every night the terrified six year old sat outside his parents room listening.

But soon it would be a distant memory for little Phillip. Soon the angelic six year old boy would be called to a higher purpose. A smile drew across the Artisan's lips.

Soon.

* * *

She felt numb all over. The medical examiners office was never a pleasant thing, but today, today it was excruciating. Her eyes were transfixed to the small covered corpse on the table, her heart in her throat.

Every cop who had been on the job more than a couple of years had one, a case that hit a little too close to home, a case that haunted their nights. This one was Olivia's.

It had driven her to the brink of devastation before the killings had stopped, the killer disappearing before they could even manage to ascertain gender. It had only been a year since the last time, and Olivia had barely began to sleep comfortably again.

"Liv?" She glanced up and found Elliot watching her, his eyes clouded with worry.

"I'm fine El," she said tiredly, putting little effort into the words. Elliot had been there, right beside her the first time around. This case had haunted them both.

Elliot saw the children that the Artisan took as his children, he saw them with the eyes of a parent. He felt each death as if the children were part of his family. Olivia saw the children, abused and neglected, as part of her past. Her childhood resurrected; a haunting reminder of all that she'd rather forget. She felt their deaths as if they were a part of her. Olivia turned her attention back to the child, her eyes misting with tears.

"Liv," Elliot said softly, drawing her attention back to him. His eyes held hers, their depths soft with concern. "Maybe you shouldn't be here for this," he told her calmly, his tone carefully detached. He watched her jaw tighten and her face contort in anger.

"Screw you Elliot," she said venomously, her eyes narrowing. "I don't need you to protect me. I can do my job," she hissed angrily.

"Good," he said, keeping his tone neutral.

Melinda Warner came pushing through the door, her face harried and tired. "Elliot. Olivia," she said with a nod, walking over to them. "Sorry I couldn't get here sooner," she apologized, pulling back the sheet that covered the still unnamed little boy.

As she began her examination Olivia stood, her gaze riveted on the little boy who had suddenly become her entire world. This case had rocked her, to her very core. It had driven her to do things she never would have thought possible.

Elliot watched Olivia, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. They'd been partners for more than eight years, and friends for at least seven. He could read every emotion that flitted across her face, and he felt every one of those emotions deep inside him. But Olivia's face was blank now, completely gutted of any emotion. And that scared him more than the rage, more than the sadness, more than any other emotion she had ever thrown at him.

It terrified him.

He didn't want her on this case. He'd seen what it had done to her the first time around, and he didn't want that to happen again. But Elliot knew that he had very little say in the matter. Olivia identified with the victims, all children, all from troubled homes. She saw herself in those victims that the Artisan had chosen. And Elliot hated that for every child they found, Olivia was forced to relive her childhood traumas.

But trying to get her removed would ruin the tenuous balance that they'd managed to find in their relationship since she'd returned. And, even though it made him feel like a selfish bastard, he couldn't lose her again. He knew he wouldn't survive it if she walked away from him again.

"Son of a bitch," he heard Olivia's vehement curse even through her tightly clenched teeth. He followed her line of sight and felt his own jaw clench. He grabbed a pair of latex gloves from the box on the edge of the examination table pulling them on, the material snapping angrily at his skin.

Melinda Warner held a tightly wound velum scroll in her latex covered hands, her expression a mixture of repulsion, rage, and fear. "Looks like he's resurfaced," she said grimly handing Elliot the scroll.

Elliot grimly unfurled the scroll, his stomach dropping to his feet. Olivia stood behind him, her eyes glued to the scroll.

_Jeff_

_The pain inside he must have felt_

_The cruelest fate he was dealt_

_Who was there to save his soul?_

_Cuts and bruises take their toll_

_Brightest light come take him home_

_Nevermore he'll be alone_

* * *


End file.
